Outtake: Draconics
by Blainy Kid
Summary: Inspired by everyone's favorite tea loving uncle, obviously. Rated M for reasons I shall not be disclosing at this time. Only small updates, but will hopefully be semi-frequent.


Fire broiled deep within him, fire unmatched even by a Hungarian Horntail's flames.

For most people breathing was a naturally easing thing to do. They didn't think about it, they never did and they never would. They just breathed. In and out. Most people would probably be scared shitless if they knew what he actually was. He wasn't most people. In May of 1998, Harry Jame Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, one of the darkest and most powerful wizards since the old days of Merlin and Morgan Le Fay themselves. He had lured the madman out to the very cave in which he and his late mentor, professor Albus Dumbledore, had burned an entire army of nearly countless Inferi. What almost no one alive knew, however, was how Harry had defeated the Dark Lord. He had to _change_. He had undertaken a series of rituals which, along with several injections of both Hungarian Horntail and Chinese Fireball blood straight into his aorta, pulmonary artery and pulmonary veins, sort of transformed him into a human-dragon hybrid. Old "Mad-Eye" Moody, once he'd found out about it all, had called him a Draconic. Bastard was always too vigilant for everyone else's peace of mind. Vigilant enough to know a lot about lore that even Dumbledore himself merely stumbled upon it by accident. The pain of the transformation was unlike anything he'd felt before. It hurt so badly, it felt surreal to Harry, almost as if he wasn't in his own body, almost as if he was taking a swim in a sea of torture and endless _bloody_ pain. It lasted for every waking moment of seventh year, and he had to miss out on the hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes He still remembered what it felt like, to this very day, almost twenty years later.

Of course, he wouldn't be Harry James Potter, if the universe didn't decide to mightily shit on him for grasping the power of a dragon within his mortal human hands. Even after the last ritual had ended he was a Draconic, the pain not only persisted but localized itself into his lungs and throat, turning from a throbbing sensation into the burning of a massive firewood oven. It still felt like he would catch fire at any given moment. Apparently, after further research by Hermione, Draconics weren't supposed to exist in the first place, which was why the witch who invented the practice was the only to go through the transformation, and the stupid bint had died from the pain alone three minutes after uttering the incantation to seal the merging of her human and dragon souls. Yeah, this was SO idiotic on so many levels, it was mind-boggling to think that Dumbledore, of all people, would even consider it, let alone recommend it.

The breathing problems started as soon as Harry was an official Draconic. Eventually, he found on a sort of solution by accident. He had to breathe through his stomach. His fire was channeled through his breathing, or rather, through the process of breathing. That meant, according to Hermione, that the more pressure he put on his lungs, the more "magical intensity" (Hermione's words) was put upon his respiratory system. Apparently, the stomach, in humans just as much as in dragons, was more capable of handling heat, even spiritual, magically-induced, heat. He remembered how he'd read a comic series when he was in his early teenage years, about a land where people weren't magical in the sense he was by then used to, but could simply bend the different forces of nature to their will. there mainly four facets to this power; air, water, earth, and fire through martial arts and an inherited gift of connection to said elements. On his fourth day of somewhat oxygen-fueled torture, the thought had randomly occurred to Harry, and having no better ideas, he simply thought to himself 'fuck it' and tried to to apply the concept of breathing through his belly. The relief was more than orgasmic, and ten years later saw him still using that same technique to manage his pain.

Ugh. It smelled like something was burning in the house. Then again, his powers taken into consideration, it always smelled like something was burning in his house. As he stepped into his kitchen, the raven-haired man laid his eyes on the table. Upon it sat the phoenix Fawkes, Dumbledore's familiar. "Fancy seeing you here. Has the old man lost track of you again?" Harry said with a step forward, bring his hand up to pet the fiery bird where he was sat on the kitchen table. "Don't worry about it. you can stay here for as you like. I'll owl Albus about you."

Walking out to the living room, he looked at his clock quickly, then pulled his cloak on and felt for his wand in his left breast pocket. As he made sure his beloved phoenix feather wand was still on him, he walked out to the snowy fields of the English West Country and strode firmly away from the house. As he reached a seemingly random dry patch of ground, he turned a bit in to his right and gave a glance toward the graveyard in Godric's Hollow. With a smile that turned a bit predatory on its ending notes he said to himself "Time to cook."


End file.
